


from a cruddy futon in chicago...

by talking_tina



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Drabble, Multi, POV Second Person, life - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:59:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talking_tina/pseuds/talking_tina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>you dragged us here, or we dragged you. probably a bit of both. thank you.</i>
</p><p>Pete and Patrick in fifteen hundred words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	from a cruddy futon in chicago...

**Author's Note:**

> Written over a couple of weeks during sleepless nights. Life in it's barest bones.
> 
> Last paragraph is an excerpt from [this blog post](http://falloutboy.com/post/48776190865/holy-smokes-to-quote-patrick-who-couldve#notes).
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction using fictional characters based in the likenesses of real people. Never happened, and I do not own these names.

You are twenty-one years old when you see him for the first time.  
  
You see he's this scuttly, awkward little guy drowning in an argyle sweater just a few sizes too big. He talks like you spoke five years ago, though, all sarcasm and wavering confidence, and you grin, because this is one cool little dude. You think you should be good friends.

X  
  
You are still twenty one the first time you hear him sing. He's not great, not yet, but there's potential and an angel's voice hiding somewhere inside his lungs and you are so excited, so excited about it that you gawk and press a spontaneous wet kiss to his cheek. You love him more when his only complaint is a gentle hand pushing you away and a faint blush. You make it a new life goal to make him blush as much as possible. It's not even because it's cute, it's just fun to know you can get a rise out of him.

X  
  
 You are twenty-two when you convince his parents to let him move into a van with you and two other stinky dudes with wild hair. It's during this time that you lie down every night in the back of the van, feet shoved somewhere cramped and the smell of sweat and Doritos entirely overwhelming, and fall asleep.  
  
You wake up before Patrick every time, and you watch him twitch and mumble incoherent nonsense as he dreams, face soft and worry-free. You think he's lovely, and even though it sounds too romantic, you can't think of any other way to put it, because he _is_ —soft and sweet and absolutely, wonderfully, nuts.

X

  
You are twenty-four when you move into an apartment with him, and you spend a lot of time writing songs with and sometimes about him, this sweet little dude that sings with a golden voice and owns too much argyle. You buy him all the David Bowie vinyls he doesn't already own and sometimes an extra hat or two.  
  
He picks fights with you often, and you are kind of embarrassed to admit that he's socked you a couple of times for being an ass and left a few nasty bruises. You yell and hit him back, but it always ends with you apologizing and him wiping the blood off your face with shaky hands. Sometimes you forget that he's only a kid.  
  
X

  
You are twenty-five, hiding out in your old bedroom at your parent's house, when he calls for the first time since the Best Buy incident. At first his speech is clipped and angry and demanding, and you shut yourself down, hardly say a word back to him--within minutes he's in tears instead. He sounds entirely too young and heartbreakingly lonely, and soon you're crying, too, sobbing apologies into your cell while curled up under thin sheets.  
  
You hate yourself for being so selfish.

X  
  
You are twenty-seven when you have your second fallout with Patrick; it began with a muted standoff in an Australian airport, and ended in a hotel room with the two of you falling asleep on either side of the bathroom door and soaking in each other's warmth through the whitewashed wood.  
  
Between that, there was swearing and yelling and crying and flat-out, dirty wrestling, Patrick's hands shoving at your shoulders, your own tugging at his thinning hair. He punches you in the nose and you end up locking yourself in the bathroom, jumping when Patrick continues to pound on the door. You both tire each other out to the point of exhaustion, and you don't realize you've fallen asleep until you wake up the next morning against the bathroom door with a crick in your neck.  
  
When you ease open the door, you find Patrick fast asleep and curled into himself, dried tear tracks on his cheeks and bruises in the shapes of your fingers scattered on his wrists. The lower half of your own face is covered in coagulated blood, and that's when you realize something between you two needs to change.

X  
  
You're twenty-eight and a little nervous when you hand over the lyrics to a disgruntled Patrick. He's been looking increasingly tired every day for months, but you've been so wrapped up in your own problems you haven't taken the time to talk to him about it. You hope it isn't because of you.  
  
You watch his face soften as he reads through the page. After he finishes, he simply goes, "Oh," and holds his arms out for a hug. You dive straight at him and don't let him go.

X  
  
You are thirty when the band goes on hiatus, which to you means all but fucking finished. You start heading down that downward spiral again, a mess of drinking and pills and angry nights with Ashlee. Every time you look at Bronx you feel sick and irresponsible, and this time you don't have Patrick to reassure you.  
  
You're jealous. You're jealous because he's slimmer and blonder and bolder and totally psyched about putting out some of his solo stuff. He’s never looked better. And you’re happy for him too, of course, because for the first time in the ten years you’ve known him he actually seems to like himself. Maybe not as much as you like him, but it’s something.

You still send him lyrics, and he still sends back .caf files for you to listen to when you’re lonely.

X

You’re thirty-one when he calls you, sounding pissed off, at first all _okay, what the fuck, Pete,_ and then _all I’m getting is minor chords out of this shit, I can’t write a song from this without feeling like John fucking Mayer_.

When you start crying, all anger in his tone dissipates and he asks where you are, if you’re okay. You blubber something about the fight and the night club and tell him you’re on your way to Gabe’s right now, even as your bleeding nose makes red-orange stains on your clothes.

X

You are still thirty-one when you get together with him after you and Ashlee split. He looks well-rested and young and in love, shuffling around in Batman pajamas with mugs of hot coffee and peppering Elisa with kisses whenever he bumps into her in the hall or in the kitchen.

The songs don’t sound right. You take him out to Angels and Kings before he can start stressing about it, and you capture some great photos on your phone of Gabe drunkenly making out with a wrecked Patrick on a dare. You feel twenty-one again, head over heels with that weird kid in argyle with an angel’s voice.

X

You are thirty-two when things start looking up. You meet Meagan at a fashion show and see her as a goddess, your ultimate savior in a time of need. Bronx takes to her immediately, and you think you might finally have a second chance at a life that you never deserved.

You and Patrick write a good song together for the first time in three years. You know it’s only a matter of time before you’re touring together again, where he’s awake and smiling and laughing and all yours to cuddle together in cramped bunks with.

X

You are thirty-three when you finally finish the album. The whole band is cheery and full of a lust for life they haven’t had in years, and there are fireworks in Patrick’s eyes when he leans forward to kiss you.

X

You are still thirty-three when the four of you play your first show together in four years. You swear there is lightning coursing through you, pushing you to move and spin and grin until your cheeks ache, sparking in your eyes. You are nineteen again, playing to a club of two hundred, all dumb smiles and bruises from moshing, someone’s elbow digging into someone else’s ribs.

This is the happiest you’ve ever been.

X

You are almost thirty-four when the band finds out the record debuted at number one on Billboard. Patrick cries a bit, and you hug him tighter than you have in years, tell him how proud you are of him, of the band, of yourself for finally putting the purest pieces of yourselves out there for the world to hear.

Joe and Andy join in and throw hands over shoulders, and sling arms around waists, foreheads pressed together until the four of you are one.

For the first time in thirty-four years, you’re alive.

X

_who could’ve dreamed up this story? if you had told us the incantations that we sang would’ve summoned what we’ve become none of us would have ever believed it. art isn’t a competition- but this does feel like vindication- just because this is one that we made just for us- and now you have made it yours. so this one felt real good and hit us right in the gut when we saw the album was number one (with a bullet!). from a cruddy broken futon in chicago you dragged us here, or we dragged you. probably a bit of both._

_thank you._


End file.
